


Let it Snow

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel
Genre: Catharsis, Mild Language, Other, Politics, Superheroes, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 02:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18002051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: So I got really frustrated reading all the silly backlash against Captain Marvel. I *guess* their issue is that she's...not a man? I don't know why I'm even trying to ascribe logic to it.Anyway, here's astory about a transgender vigilante who smashes trolls' WiFi routers — because everyone deserves a power fantasy. OC Marvel character.***Please note, this story contains offensive anti-trans and anti-Semitic language meant to show the toxic attitude of the troll villain. This is not the author's belief. Possible trigger warning.******If you are transgender and/or Jewish, please know I meant no offense. If my writing is a poor representation, I take full blame.***





	Let it Snow

Let it Snow

 

“Oh yes, thank you Senator. Yes, it went very well. The doctor’s given me some pain medicine that’s supposed to help...A bit, yes....Okay, I know you have to get going. 6:00, right?...Excellent. I’ll see you then...Ba-bye.”

I hung up the phone and stretched, considering my list of names. A hint of pale purple colored one edge of my desktop, where the light from the soon-to-set sun crept in my office window.

Was it really so late already? I’d been talking to Senator Goldie longer than I thought.

I passed over a few names I knew wouldn’t pick up the phone at this hour, not this close to the end of session. My finger finally settled on Senator Kingsley.

“Myra, you’re working late,” came her voice, tinny in my phone speaker.

“Working hard, you know me.”

“What can I do for you?”

I pulled up a new tab on my browser, consulting a bulleted outline of talking points. “The Franklin deal, Senator. How’s that coming?”

“I should have known.” She huffed, the sound a burst of feedback on my handpiece. “It’s coming. Slowly, but surely. Heckle’s on board; still working the contraception angle on Bannon. I know you were hoping for more, but that’s all I can really say at this time.”

I _was_ hoping for more, but criticizing her agonizing pace wouldn’t help. Instead I said,

“Of course. I understand, Senator. Your support has been invaluable to all of us. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

“I will.”

And with that, the phone clunked, cutting our conversation short. Senator Kingsley wasn’t much for small talk.

I glanced up at the clock. I wasn’t likely to get through to anyone else this evening. My other calls could wait.

With a wicked smile, I pulled out my _other_ list. This one wasn’t on any browser; that certainly wouldn’t do. The handwritten text, to all appearances, was a jumble of random words spilled over the page like loose pasta.

See, my work was far from finished at sundown. In fact, sundown was where my _real_ job started; where all the smokescreens and doubletalk of political maneuvering gave way to actual results.

I had a date tonight...of sorts.

 

***

 

 **Target:** PepeThe-peePee_Pirate.

 **Location:** Currently—not here. Frequently—a sweat-stained, fart-scented chair crammed behind a second-hand desk in his moldy basement.

I knelt on the roof of the adjoining house, surveying the property. Simple, idyllic even. The kind of bread-box, heart-of-America dreamscape that somehow still gives birth to flatulent masses of flab like Pepe.

I’d been tracing his Internet history for some time now (it’s so cute how they think incognito mode protects them), and in plumbing those horrid depths, I found a particularly interesting pattern: Pepe’s daylight Internet accounts liked to talk about women with words like “Fair,” “Ravishing,” or my favorite: “Sculpted by the hands of Aphrodite into the perfect female form.”

But it was his afterdark pursuits that interested me. I reviewed my intel as I readied myself for the leap.

You might find yourself asking, why would I risk jumping between houses in a populated suburban neighborhood? And why in God’s name would I do so in a spangly, rainbow leotard? The answer’s quite simple: I _wanted_ to be seen.

Cool November air whooshed by my ears, prickling over my cheeks as I soared across the gap between houses. I landed on all fours on the opposite roof with a clunk of heavy boots. The smell of recent rain floated up from the manicured lawns, and a sliver of silver moon glittered in the sky overhead. Tonight was a good night for it.

Pepe’s house had a very useful feature, one I intended to exploit mercilessly. I crawled my way over the shingled roof until I came to a pane of glass, maybe ten feet across and three wide.

Raising one heel, I drove my foot right into that glass ceiling, and it shattered with a gratifying crash, raining down into the bathroom below in sparkling motes. I fell with it.

Have you ever seen the disturbing result of an anime girl stretched over a bunched-up shower curtain? Because I did, just then. She stared at me with misshapen, glazed eyes. I shuddered and firmly turned away. I really didn’t want to know what Pepe got up to in his shower.

I eyed the broken skylight, nodding in satisfaction. Surely the entire street had heard _that._ My point had been made, and I needed to finish the job quickly.

Yanking open the bathroom door, I found myself in a wood-floored hallway. Whatever decorating budget Pepe had, I think it all went to pictures of boobs. There had to be at least seven pairs of breasts in my immediate line of sight. I pressed on through the nipple forest until I came to the basement door.

The _smell_ that rose up the concrete stairs was horrific; a cocktail of enormous BO, stale beer, and rotten food. I wrinkled up my nose and did my best to breathe through my mouth. I think I could _taste_ Pepe’s sweat in the air.

I reached up and felt around until my fingers brushed a pull-chain. A click, and a bare bulb flickered to life. Instead of paintings of boobs, the light reflected off glass cases. Little statues with improbable anatomy flaunted themselves in neat rows.

But my target was at the far end of the room: Pepe’s desk.

His computer was on, casting a blue-white glow over the wood tabletop. Pushing aside a plate of green pizza, I settled down into his chair.

“Oh, God…” I shuddered. “It’s _moist._ Ugh.”

I did my best to ignore the feeling. On Pepe’s screen, a short line of script executed itself over and over again. I watched it for a moment to confirm my suspicions.

Yup. Rotten Tomatoes. Pepe had a bot posting endless negative reviews of the latest superhero movie. Why? I guess because the hero wasn’t...a man? I couldn’t puzzle out his logic, seeing as his review went something like:

 

"SjW buLLSHIT! EVERYON who work on this FEMiNAZI garbaje deserve to DIE. WHY does Holywood HATE MEN???!!111!!?”

 

“Holywood,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Well said, Pepe. Must be the studio that wrote _Passion of the Christ._ ”

I put the poor bot out of its misery and closed both windows. Pepe’s Twitter feed lay open on the other screen. I scrolled through tweets until I found the one that had brought me here in the first place. It would serve as excellent motivation.

I read through it one more time, just to remind myself why I came to work each night.

Perhaps if I were a more Libertarian girl, I’d have let Pepe keep it up. Freedom of speech and all, right? But I wasn’t. In fact, I often wondered whether idiots like Pepe should even be allowed to pollute the annals of human discourse. We could do better, couldn’t we?

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,” I said to myself.

And smashed his WiFi router with my boot.

His tower came next, the expensive case buckling and bending beneath repeated blows. I kicked it in as hard as I could, revelling in the cathartic release. His screens winked out, and I broke them too, driving a fist through the ghost of Pepe’s final tweets.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” a voice gurgled.

I jumped and spun around.

PepeThe-peePee_Pirate, in all his 300-pound, sweaty glory, bore down on me. His cheeks flapped like a bulldog, and if I thought his _basement_ smelled bad…

He leveled a sausage-like finger at me. “YOU! You’re him! The Snowflake!”

“Her, actually,” I said.

He tried to force his way past me, but I absorbed the blow, redirecting his mass with a twist of my torso and knees. Pepe bellowed like a distressed walrus and tumbled to the floor.

“Why?” he moaned.

I took a knee beside him and pulled out my phone, shoving it into his chest. I wasn’t in the mood to be polite.  

“At 3:34 AM this past Tuesday, you tweeted a picture of a swastika at a Jewish voice actress. You wrote, ‘Concentration camps didn’t exist, but if they did who could blame Hitler?’”

He glared up at me, flabby cheeks pale in the wan light of my phone. “So what? She put herself out there! Public figures should be able to take the consequences.”

My lip curled.

“Well, then look at it this way, Pepe. Putting yourself out there.” I pointed at him. “The consequences.” I pointed at his smashed computer. “Don’t dish what you can’t take.”

“But you’re proving me right!” he crowed, rolling around to stick another finger in my face. He looked kind of like a capsized turtle. “All you SJW trannys are batshit crazy. Why else would you chop off your balls?”

I bit back my first response. My temper urged me to tell him that he might as well chop off his own balls, seeing as they’d never get any use. I wasn’t going to lower myself to that level.

“Later, Pepe,” I said instead, and made my way toward the stairs.

 

As I did, I heard him sniffle.

 

I sighed.

I hated it when they cried. It reminded me that they weren’t evil, not really. Just...pathetic.

“Look in the right-hand drawer, once you pick yourself up off the floor,” I told him. “I left enough money in there to replace everything. Get yourself a new graphics card. Yours sucks.”

Pepe snuffled. “What?”

“But I’ll be watching you for a while. If I see any shit like that tweet again, I’ll be back, and I won’t be so nice the second time.”

I stomped up the stairs.

Back through the Hall of Boobs, into the bathroom. I leapt lightly up onto the counter and vaulted for the skylight.

The night had gotten colder. I considered my list once more. Twenty more names to get through tonight. Twenty of the millions of trolls on the Internet.

Sometimes I wondered why I bothered. Even if Pepe changed his ways, there would only be more of him. An endless parade of people who felt small, and thus the need to bring the rest of the world down with them.

Across the street, someone’s blinds twitched. I figured it would reveal a gawking neighbor.

Instead, a pair of tiny people peeked through the slats. A little girl in _Star Wars_ pajamas, and a little boy in a princess tiara.

They smiled at me.

I waved.

Right.

Next up was Ryan_da clutchestBoss. He had a problem with homosexuality, and enjoyed photoshopping pictures of people like Elton John burning in Hell to show to his youth group. I wondered if he’d ever been to Holywood.

I leapt for the next roof. Surely, I’d hear the sirens soon. They usually showed up after the first break-in. Most of the time, they didn’t try that hard to catch me. The little faces in the window watched me go.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
